


A Little Dinner Death

by JazzRaft



Series: kitchen disasters [11]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 04:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20221606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzRaft/pseuds/JazzRaft
Summary: “I think you need to call it, Noct.”Noctis sighed, glancing at the kitchen clock. “Time of death, six o’ eight. What a waste of good cheese.”





	A Little Dinner Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glaivenoct](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glaivenoct/gifts).

> A [prompt fill](https://jazzraft.tumblr.com/post/186728984162/lets-just-order-take-out-for-nyxnoct-d) from a list of [kitchen disasters](https://jazzraft.tumblr.com/post/186452779569/kitchen-disasters) for [glaivenoct](https://glaivenoct.tumblr.com/).

“Let’s just order take-out.”

“We wouldn’t have to do that if you hadn’t distracted me.”

“It’s not my fault that you’re so distracting,” Nyx tried, sidling back up against Noct with a smile he hoped was sultry enough that he might be forgiven for the infraction.

“It’s exactly your fault,” Noctis stated, not quite duped into forgiving him just yet.

Nyx wanted to point out that Noctis had been more than happy to consent to being distracted. He wanted to chide him with a reminder that he could have escaped the ambush of affection at any time. Nyx had just wanted a better view of whatever he was cooking up on the stove-top. He’d just wanted to wrap his arms around Noct’s waist and prop his chin on his shoulder to watch what he was doing. It wasn’t _his_ fault that Noctis pressed back into his chest like that, or turned his neck _like that,_ just asking for Nyx to pepper kisses all along the length of it.

He was fully prepared to make his case for only _half_ of the blame. He would not settle for full blame that the cheese had burned. Usually, it took one to ruin an Alfredo sauce. But in this case, it definitely took two. They were partners in this kitchen crime. If he was going down, he was taking Noct with him.

“Maybe I could still save it,” Noctis said, with a plaintive lack of hope in his voice.

He nudged the gelatinous monstrosity with a wooden spoon, startled by a rancid pop of the cheese he disturbed with his probing. Nyx caught him back in his arms when he jumped, chuckling and trying to comfort him with an embrace that echoed their previous position – the one that murdered this sauce in the first place.

“I think you need to call it, Noct.”

Noctis sighed, glancing at the kitchen clock. “Time of death, six o’ eight. What a waste of good cheese.”

“I don’t know if it was a _total_ waste…”

Nyx had certainly enjoyed the distraction. Any excuse to kiss Noct or hold Noct or tease little moans or sighs or smiles from Noct, was not time – or cheese – wasted in Nyx’s book. Still, he was sorry to disappoint him, for that, he’d take all the blame.

And he was starting to regret the smell the burnt sauce was leaving in his apartment. It almost smelled as if someone had taken a lighter to a pair of damp gym shoes and left them in Nyx’s trash bin to smolder. It was a shocking turn-around from the savory perfume of melting butter and garlic and cheese that had originally inspired his appetite for the chef.

Said chef slid an unenthused look at Nyx for implying that the motives for this murder had somehow absolved him of the crime. It did not. He had a lot of repenting to do on behalf of this sauce. Might as well get started.

Nyx squeezed his arms around Noct and offered up his best impression of a puppy to bribe him into forgiving him. He nuzzled against his shoulder and told him how sorry he was and that, if he really wanted, Nyx would still eat the disgusting results of their distractibility to make it up to him.

“Ew, no,” Noctis laughed. “The last thing I need is for this to be the cooking that kills you.”

“I mean, it’s only fair,” Nyx offered. “A life for a life. I killed the sauce, it’s only right that it should kill me.”

“How noble of you. I think the gods will forgive you.”

“But will my king?”

Noctis pretended to ponder the possibility, pointedly ignoring the puppy-dog eyes Nyx was trying to lure him into. “I suppose I could. If you pay for the take-out.”

“A small price to pay for the good grace of my lord and sovereign.”

Noctis slapped Nyx’s arms with the spoon and wriggled out of his clutches before he distracted himself too much to order the food. Nyx’s apartment might have smelled like burnt plastic, but a few open windows helped to air out the space, as well as the mood. The sauce couldn’t be salvaged, but that didn’t mean their evening couldn’t be.

Nyx didn’t care what they ate. He didn’t care what they did. He didn’t care if they ended up ruining his best non-stick pan or if the neighbors would complain about the smell for a day or two.

He just cared about Noct. He cared about his comfort in the tiny kitchen of cheap appliances. He cared about his capacity for humor in the face of a sauce killed by Nyx’s inability to keep his hands off of him while he cooked. He cared about his kindness, earning Nyx the right of his forgiveness once the sauce was discarded and the crime scene cleared.

He cared about curling up in his old arm chair with aluminum containers full of denser, greasier fettucine Alfredo than whatever they could have made themselves. He cared about kissing him with apologies as much as with his cravings, and about how Noctis squirmed with laughter every time Nyx’s scruffy beard tickled his face. He cared that, in spite of all the mistakes, big or small, they might have made in this very apartment, Noctis would always come back.

“Promise that next time I’ll save the distractions for right here,” Nyx said, later, patting the sheets after the take-out was devoured and his bed had beckoned.

“We’ll see about that,” Noctis chuckled, drowsy, curling up under Nyx’s arm. “I don’t think you know the definition of self-restraint.”

“You and me both, little king.”

“Clearly we were made for each other,” Noct yawned.

“No doubt about that.”

Warm orange lines bracketed Noct’s face, the color of sunset bleeding between the blinds over Nyx’s window. Hopefully, the smell of burnt cheese would descend just as night did, and his dreams wouldn’t be plagued by radioactive blobs of parmesan running him around a giant frying pan.

All he wanted to dream about was Noct. About Noct in his kitchen, in his armchair, in his bed, in his life. He wanted to dream about dopey, domestic disasters, and hope that they were foresight into the future. He dreamed about going to bed whining about garlic breath, about kisses against the kitchen sink over coffee in the morning.

When he woke up the next morning, his dreams had come true.


End file.
